Truth
by Mikanis
Summary: As a fanfiction author, your only virtue is to make the characters seem more human. You are borrowing someone else's imagination, if only to make them more dear to your own. Do them justice. Make them Real...Make them Human. If not that, why bother?
1. At The End

AN- This has nothing to do with my other story.

People have, and will always try to kill their new God. The body on the table in front of me belonged to perhaps the only person to ever truly support Kira and his ideals. Misa Amane, the only true believer in a world of millions. If there is another one, I have yet to find him, but I feel I should do it quickly.

People are…human. I find this to be the one basic truth, and possibly, the only thing that can kill me now. I am human. I, Light Yagami, am a human being and I play a God's game.

So much time has passed, and the world still changes. For a brief time, a very brief time, I was God. I was king of a glorious world, and there was peace. Perhaps no good will, but there was Peace. I'd done it. People far and wide, across every ocean, desert, in the very corners and cracks of the world feared Kira. The whole of Mankind sat in the palm of my hand and sung hymns to my glory. I was God.

It wasn't enough. It wasn't happiness. I'd sacrificed everything I ever cared about, everything to achieve this dream. I was more than willing to suffer for it. Now, I sit and watch as it crumbles around me.

It started with the holy wars. God's children were fighting each other, killing in Kira's name to gain his favor. Self-judgment, self-sacrifice, and every move I made either glorified the different tribes, or demolished their motivation. To strike down a fanatical leader was to 'abandon' his people, or show his 'imminent defeat' in whatever battle he happed to be fighting…he was either wrong, or not worthy. After that, it was either suicide for his followers, or, for those left over with weaker faith in Kira, death for heresy at the hands of another crusading tribe.

Madness. Like a disease, an infection in the minds of mortal men, and it haunts my very soul now. Madness is like a lover in the back of my thoughts, stroking my heart even as it blackens and withers beneath her touch.

The holy wars were soon raging out control. I briefly managed to put a stop to it, by simultaneously killing each and every cult leader, and oh, that made the world pause. How it had frozen in its tracks, the very gears grinding to a halt as it pondered this new move. Then, Insanity, the ever present drug of society, whispered in the ears of my people.

Until those months, I had never known bloodshed. I had never known murder. They took my message, bastardized it, and turned my wrath, my loathing of war…into loathing of themselves.

"Let us seek out the infection, the heresy, within our own ranks, for God himself has shown us our weakness. We turn on each other, when instead our great nations face an internal problem."

And oh, the killing…

Thousands of innocents died, tortured and killed in my name. Man turned on his neighbor as my self-proclaimed holy men began to search out the heretics. Thousands of innocent people were slaughtered by people who were twisting my good words.

I watched every televised burning.

I watched every riot, every lynching, every public firing squad, every terrorist bombing, every assassination, every stoning, every man crucified, every, single, one.

I did not feel like a God.

Misa, my poor servant, my dearest follower…she couldn't take it. I'd never known the depth of her love until those months, but, as she watched me suffer, I watched her bloom into a beautiful, strong woman. My arch angel, my stupid, stupid, angel…

She disappeared one day. I thought she'd gone to do more protesting, as one of my Spokeswomen. I had a few, all beautiful, faithful, women the world had once listened to…but Misa…Misa was something else entirely. She never stopped, she slaved for me, all willingly, and I only had to ask. Not even Takada was that hardworking…that…Fanatical.

I see it now, where I didn't see it before. My Little Martyr.

Misa went Public. She took her notebook and called a mass, in my honor.

And there, on international television, in the eyes of the entire world…she killed me.

My Martyr.

She showed them the notebook. She demonstrated its power, beseeching them to finally see that I was just a man, and that they were killing me, breaking Kira's heart. That this holy war they were fighting was everything I'd hoped to avoid. In a touching speech, she appealed to whatever humanity was left in the world to just be at peace.

She'd barely made it out alive with the notebook.

Ah, Madness, my dear, you're cruel.

They knew. They knew, they'd witnessed…

And when a world's religion is ripped apart, when the very God they worship, the very god they entrusted their souls to is shown to be nothing…The world begins to fall apart.

I killed her. I had to, but I must admit, I didn't mind at this point. With fifteen minutes of footage, and a teary message, she'd made the entire world realize that they were all murderers, and that the God they had trusted to redeem them, to keep them safe in the horrible unknown of the afterlife…was a man…just a man. Neighbor looked at neighbor, and realized that they might as well have started their own religion, for all the good their faith had done them. The old Gods were long dead, all texts and artwork long destroyed in the fire of "Kira's Light".

They had no where to turn to. So they sought vengeance. And now, I, Light Yagami, am not only a mere mortal…but the most wanted man on the planet.

I know that I will die, very, very soon. I will die with a gift. An intimate knowledge of Fate and her fickle ways, and the undeniable glory of knowing that I single handedly destroyed the world.

And I won't even get a comic book.

"Truth, Vengeance, and Justice.", Kira's creed. I killed selectively, wisely, and for all my genius, I lead the world down a golden path, a righteous path…and straight on into hell.

Misa looks peaceful in her final rest. As a user of the DeathNote, she cannot go to heaven or hell, and neither can I. I suppose that's blessing. Because if the real Gods were right, and watching my people…

Well…I'd rather not meet them in Hell… or any other afterlife I can think of. The building shakes beneath my feet, and I can hear the planes overhead. Ten years, six of which had been bliss, as a contented God in a utopian world.

"_Once is Once."_, Yes L…it is. Even now, after all of this, I try to tell myself that it was all worth it…that those six years were worth everything that followed.

Yes, I don't believe me either.

The building groans again, the shriek of rending metal and shattering glass an indefinite roar it seems. No, it stills for just a moment, and I can hear, dimly in the distance, thousands feet away…

"Kira, Kira, Kira…" They're calling me Home. They're coming to kill me.

They've been working at the base of this building for close to three hours now, the tallest building in the Kanto region of Japan. L's "Kira Investigation Headquarters"… Amazing really, how much average people can deduce from a box of files found in a gutted orphanage in England. I'd had no where else to go. And now I'm going to die here.

L is laughing at me, I know it.

They've bombed the support of the sky scraper, and as it leans beneath my feet, I know the end is close. I can hear the crowd, a safe distance away, still chanting my death call. Tonight, they've come to kill a god. All they're going to find is the corpse of a man. I've already sent the notebooks back, all of them. They won't have those…that at least, I can assure.

The planes circle back, and I get on my hands and knees as I hear them fire again. The very earth seems to shiver, and the building leans again…slowly…oh so slowly at first. With a final crack and hiss of metal, it keeps going, and I know that it's done. They've broken it, and me too. Even as my nails scrabble for purchase on the thin office carpet and Misa's corpse rolls off the table to crash through a window, I know I'll die here, like this.

Yes.

Yes L, You were justice.

But I, Light Yagami…

I was God.


	2. Sleep

L thinking while cuffed to Light.

Sleep

It's hard to watch him sleep.

He looks like a completely different person when he's asleep. It's nice to know, that at least subconsciously, there is peace somewhere in this boy's soul. Ironic, that there is peace buried, hidden away in there, when I'm grabbing at straws trying to regain my own. Ironic, and so very unfair.

I am a genius. World class, highest ranking detective, highest recorded I.Q in history, and reasoning skills that make Sherlock Holmes look like an idiot child. I know this. I am not overly proud of it. In the end, it cost me more than I ever cared to sacrifice.

She's given me her idea of repayment I guess, but Justice is a cold lady. She's not a very giving lover, nor is she an overly affectionate friend.

We're more suited than I like.

He never moves when he sleeps. He never dreams, never talks, stirs, turns or shivers. It's almost unnatural, corpse-like. How can anyone sleep that peacefully? How can anyone not have something to dwell on in their rest? You'd think with the work we do, with the weight of our task, he would find something that would fix in his mind. You'd think Kira would have nightmares, would at least think…

But he sleeps, and sleeps beautifully. He lies down at night, and rises from the same position in the morning. I can hear the change in his breathing as he slips between sleep cycles, moves through them like a dancer without pause. I envy him when he sleeps.

I do not sleep…not when I can help it. Some would chalk it up to habit, others to sheer tenacity, but I do not sleep at night. I do not sleep well or easily.

I feel as though he's mocking me.

I'd give anything to just…Just BE, like that. To just exist for a few hours, without having to deal with all the troubles that accompany existence…I cannot think of anything I want more in the world. My life has never been simple, but I've never been one to dwell on my past. Still, the temptation to try is great. Nights like this, it's almost an addiction…like a child with a smoking parent… They can never touch a cigarette themselves, but the urge is subliminally implanted. Nights like this, I want to put the laptop away, curl up and just be vulnerable for a few hours…to lie down with no fear. I do not sleep…but I want to. I want to very much.

I hate him when he Sleeps.


	3. Video Games

AN- Mello, reflecting.

I hate his fucking video games. I hate listening to badly dubbed voices, watching the different worlds he escapes into. I hate them so fucking much. It's not that I mind him playing them…but I never could. I could never be bothered. Keeping up appearances is something I'm good at.

It's not that I mind him playing, no…I think it's more that I couldn't bear to use that escape. I guess I consider it more of a weakness, having to resort to twenty inches of lit screen to escape your troubles. I don't think that's the entire reason that Matt plays…but I know he's too intelligent to gain anything more than a passing amusement from them. I know that it isn't the challenge he seeks, God knows. He has them all mastered inside a day, beaten twice by bedtime if I let him play that long.

I think sometimes, I might be afraid of his games. He plays them, and he's mindless, his genius is gone, and in its place is someone so utterly normal, so human, that I don't recognize him. He doesn't understand why Near and I fight, and he likely never will. He doesn't understand why I won't play with him, and I _know_ he'll never understand that.

Yeah…yeah, I think it is fear. I think that I'd become addicted to them. Not like he is, no…I mean seriously addicted, like cigarettes. I'm afraid that if I give in, if I sample that escape just once, I'll never want to come back to this fucked up world. If I allowed myself to just sink into whatever pitiful plot he presented to me, I'm sure that I'd lose myself.

I'm not one to go willingly into that goodnight…

It hurts him I think, that I remain so distant. I want to say that I really don't care, but I do. He's my best friend, one of the few that are willing to co-exist with someone as insanely eccentric as I am. He's really the only friend I've ever had. L once told me, in one of his last transmissions, that he'd finally found a friend. I remembered being jealous, insanely jealous. I hurt Near with my ranting…I was so lost in my anger that I actually took out my lighter and set one of his white puzzles on fire. He'd put it out of course. He'd even finished the damn thing, and set it to the side, leaving it out, so that I could see what I'd done.

Matt never did that. I wonder sometimes why he's stayed with me. I wonder if he's just as crazy as I am. He stays with me no matter what I do to him….and I'm well aware that I can get a little fucked up in the head late at night.

I let him play his games…at least until the constant noise begins to grate on my nerves.

You know…I blamed L. For a short while, after I learned of his death. I blamed him because I didn't know what else to do. I thought that he'd left me without training me, and that was why I was tied with Near. I was sure that when he returned from his case in Japan, he'd come back to my training, and I'd learn the last few techniques I needed to get ahead of Near.

But he never came back.

And I haven't learned those techniques yet.

And Near is still so fucking far ahead of me.

And I sit here, and I watch Matt play his video games, because God only knows, the only solace I can find is not in my chocolate, but here. Here, on the couch with bright flashing light drilling a headache into my skull. Here with badly dubbed voice and the click of a controller. Here, with his head inches from my knees, next to a growing pile of chocolate wrappers on the floor. I find solace knowing that here, just for a few hours; my best friend can get away from all the shit that I have to deal with.

I never asked him to stay.

I guess that's why I allow him to run like this.


	4. Firefly

AN- Matt explains stuff

I would love to tell you that you don't know him. I would love to tell you he's a mystery, an enigma, but while he does have his share of secrets, that's not true at all. Pretty much, if you've ever been in the vicinity of a chocolate starved Mello, you know him. He's not overly quiet about what's on his mind.

I would love to tell you that I met him in a moment of weakness, when one of us desperately needed someone else to befriend. But that'd be bullshit, 'cause neither of us is weak. I'd love to tell you that we forged a friendship out of hate, or spite, like he and Near…but that's not how it happened either.

Mello is an asshole, and I have to give him props. He really, really is. In truth, I really don't know what drew me to the guy. I still have no idea when he became my best friend. He just…stepped into my life one day, and that was that. There was no big dramatic fight, no injury, no pain to build a relationship out of. It just kind of happened.

Now, I've been told that I'm Mello's dog…by everyone, including Mello. I know better. And If I'm his dog, what are you? ...His trash. At least I rank in the companion category. See, you really don't know Mello…or rather…you know him, but you can't read him. You don't know what he's really saying when he talks to you, because…He's Mello. It's almost like subliminal messaging, I think. You hear the harsh, nasty stuff on top, and if you're not looking close enough, you miss what's underneath that.

Mello reminds me a lot of light. He's like some kind of shining light. It blinds you at first, but if you just stand there, if you can just hold out a minute, you can see what's underneath that sunlight. You can't beat a mind like that down. I mean, sure, he's second to Near…but that's because Near is half dead to the world. Mello is the only person I know of that has that intellect, that massive thinking-capacity, and the ability to FEEL. The ability to still be human. So what if that human is an ass, he's still there. He's fucking amazing, that's what he is. He's never once told me to give up, to go home, and that alone tells me he wants me around.

Mello doesn't tolerate what Mello doesn't like.

When he bitches at me, says I'm late when I come back with a bag of chocolate for him, he's really sayin' "Thanks". I know that. You don't.

When he hits me, it's because he can't hug me. We have our share of random-ass punching matches…

When he takes my cigarettes away, he's doing it because he's worried, not because the smoke bothers him. Why my cigarette when every member of the Mafia is lighting up in the same room, eh? Why mine?

He's my best friend, whether he's ever going to tell me or not. That's why I get up at two in the morning when he wants hot chocolate, that's why I now put my cigarette out when he walks in.

Mello is a great light. He's going to be a great man someday…and someday, I know, he's going to give me the opportunity to be great too. Someday he's going to let me do something that will make a _difference. _That's just the kind of person he is. They're one in a million.

So what if I'm his dog…Mello is my light, and you don't ever, _ever_, let a real firefly go.


	5. Loss

Oh God, I can't watch this. It's not fair, he doesn't deserve to lose his father…not when he's given up so much already. He's even begging at this point. It hurts to look at him.

Soichiro is dying.

Thinking back on it now, I find it very hard to believe. This man has always been there for me…ever since I joined the academy, I've been under his wing. When he vowed to bring Kira down, I couldn't help but marvel at his strength. He was amazing, to sacrifice so much of his time…even his son, to this investigation. I feel like I've watched him grow old.

I watched him sit through hell, locked in a cage, sharing his son's pain because he felt that if he watched it, it'd kill him. He'd rather suffer with him, than witness his son's incarceration. I must admit, most of what I did while working this case…from breaking into the Yotsuba building, to jumping off the balcony and trusting the mattress to hold, I did for this man.

And within the next few minutes, he'll be gone.

I'm shocked to see tears on Light's face, though I likely shouldn't be. If Light Yagami ever showed affection, it was to his father. Light is not an open person…he's…brilliant even if he's a little detached. I'm still fond of him though. I envy him sometimes…he's like this special role-model, this perfect person…

And L thought he was Kira.

God I can't stand this anymore, the pain in his voice is going to kill me next. I wrap my arms around his chest and pull him away.

"Light, Stop it!"

The sound of the heart monitor going static fills my ears, and Light goes limp, falling to his knees.

Soichiro is gone, and the world has lost a great man.

I can't bring myself to touch Light again…I know the boy wouldn't want it. For a moment…just a moment, though…I want to hug him. I want to comfort him, like my own son or brother. I'm not that much older than him anyway, and sometimes, I feel like the teenager in his presence. I'd have given anything to have a Father like Soichiro.

The room goes silent, and the only whisper of sound is Light's breathing. He doesn't sob, he doesn't gasp for air or wail. If not for a slight tremor in his shoulders every few minutes, you might never guess he was crying. In fact, if we hadn't spent so much time with the boy, in close contact every single day for years…we might not have guessed ourselves.

My arms hurt…cuts and burns reminding me that I'm lucky. I, Matsuda, am a damn lucky man. I'm still standing here, I'm still alive. And While I have lost the greatest man I've ever known, at least I don't have the added pain of knowing that my father is dead as well.

I wonder if L would cry were he here. Something tells me against it, but I do think that he'd at least be sad. He had a great respect for the Chief Inspector.

As I look at the back of Light's head, I wonder what he'll do next. I wonder how the genius is going to cope. Me, personally…I think I'm going to go home and treat myself to a drink. A bit of self-medication seems in order tonight.


	6. Prison

I used to wonder what I would be like. If I had a real name and a life…What kind of name is Near anyway? I guess it doesn't matter, I'm kind of stuck with it now.

I used to wonder if I'd be…normal. Like Mello sans the genius…Or maybe, Matt without his computer skills. I've always been this way though…kind of stuck inside myself. I…see you. I hear, and feel, and react to everything you do and say. But I do it…inside. I'm incapable of normal expression, or a normal way of toleration. I can't do extremes.

I can't raise my voice. I can't…wear bright colors, I can't…growl, or cry, or laugh, or sing, or…anything. I'm just…stuck. Maybe that's why Mello always seemed so…larger-than-life to me. He couldn't do anything quietly…the boy made a production out of _breathing_.

I only met L in person once. Towards the middle of my training…and he was nothing like I expected. Now that I think about it…I expected more of a Light Yagami than the L that I got. It wasn't disappointing, just…surprising really. I couldn't bring myself to speak at first. He thought I was autistic, or at least mute. He spoke to me in sign language. I smiled at him and found my voice then.

He only had two things to say to us…to Mello, he said "If you do not learn how to ask questions, you will never get the answers you seek."

And to Me, "Observation is not enough…the questions bring the answers as well…but all the same, if you ask questions without observing, you might as well walk away before hearing the answer."

He'd given us both candy and walked away. Mello savored his chocolate bar…I threw mine away. I secretly hoped he didn't mind, but I'm just not a candy person. I felt that candy was for other people…people like Mello. People who lived outside of themselves.

I can't laugh. I can give a choked sort of giggle, but that's all my extreme self-consciousness will allow. I can frown, narrow my eyes, but I cannot voice my anger, I cannot snap at people, and I could never, ever, hit another soul. I just…can't.

I can't even work a colored puzzle, though in truth, I find my white ones to be more challenging anyway.

One day perhaps, I'll take a cue from Mello and crawl out of my prison. One day perhaps, everything will come together, and I'll be able to stand up. I don't think it will be straight, or tall…perhaps more bent and hunched like my predecessor L…but I will do it.

One day, I will laugh.


	7. White

Mello is quiet.

Something is terribly wrong…yet, I can't bring myself to move. Mello just walked, not stomped, into our room, and Mello shut, not slammed, our door. He walked over to his bed, and there he sits now, his knees drawn up, his head down.

He never spoke…no cheery insults, no gruff hellos…nothing.

I gather my puzzle pieces and put them on the board. I hesitate for a moment, but I sit at the foot of his bed, opposite him, and set it down between us. He hasn't moved…and he hasn't told me to shove off either.

Yes, something is very wrong with Mello. There are very few things that could disturb him like this. I believe I know what it is... worse…I believe it is my fault. Indirectly, perhaps, but my fault nonetheless.

In Wammy house, the moment you step through the door, your name is erased from history. You are given an alias, an avatar, and the best training the world can offer, in whatever your chosen field is. At first, I found this intriguingly cruel…to take names from children who are not even sure what they mean yet.

One rule in Wammy house…you choose when you become an adult. Yes there are limitations, but each case is handled individually to assure that all necessary skills and resources are met. This is hard…hard on us, the children. But, once you make the decision, it is made. You are subjected to adult-level training in all aspects of your field, and expected to keep up with it. The decision is never made lightly…except, perhaps…by an angry Mello.

Yes I think that is the only thing that could shock Mello into silence. Mello and I are both training to be criminal investigators…but…Mello, emotionally at least is still a child. I should know this because we fight all the time…I am too. But I, myself, hadn't planned on making The Decision for at least another two years.

Mello has made it too early.

It hurt him.

Yes…yes that's it. I'm still not entirely sure what they've shown him, or made him do…perhaps made him witness at an execution, perhaps interview a rape victim, perhaps process a murder scene.

Mello is eleven.

Mello is a child.

And now…Mello is quiet.

Mello is a brilliant detective, even at this age, but he's just, not, ready. Perhaps if I hadn't fought with him, he'd never have felt the need to prove himself, and I know that's what this is.

"I have to go back tomorrow don't I?" His voice breaks my reverie. I realize that I've been putting my puzzle together as I thought…it's almost done now. He doesn't raise his head.

"Yes, Mello."

"I…thought so." There is silence for a few moments, with only the click of puzzle pieces falling into place.

"Mello…I am sorry for what I said." _Click_.

"Not as sorry as I am."_ Click_.

"Will you tell me about it?" _Click._

"….I don't…" He finally raises his head, looks me in the eye. "Yeah. Yeah I will…God knows…one of us deserves some fucking warning." His hand slips under his pillow, searching.

"It's in the drawer." He looks and reclines again, his chocolate in hand. Mello is quiet, his voice soft and pained…

I listen.

I don't ever want Mello to be quiet…not ever again. After a moment, he leans forward and tentatively picks up a piece of my puzzle. I nod to him, and he moves to kneel across from me, taking turns. Puzzle suddenly becomes Chess…without strategy or point.

He's never touched my puzzles before. There's a chocolate smear on a piece now, and he tries to rub it off. I just shake my head and take my turn. Usually I'd have immediately thrown the puzzle away…I don't like it when my whites are damaged. I know he's surprised.

"So he was serial murderer?" I prompt.

"Yes…I had to...profile his work. I didn't know they'd already caught him and were testing me…I thought they'd shoved me headlong into a case." _Click._

"They showed you pictures, didn't they?" _Click._

"I can't talk about that just yet…gimme a while." The chalk sound of chocolate breaking and his free hand reaches decisively for a white jigsaw. _Click._

He keeps talking…he talks long into the night. His voice is strong, he doesn't cry, but I know Mello. Mello is hurting.

We finish two puzzles together.

I think I'll frame them. The chocolate smudges don't bother me at all.


	8. Betrayal

Matsuda's betrayal, because I love him and He needed a spotlight for this. Spoilers for the end of DN here...

I think Matsuda took it the hardest...and while he wasn't the one to kill Light, you gotta give him props for making sure that he at least suffered a teensy bit before Ryuk took him. Go Matsu, Go.

All quotes are directly from the manga.

XXXX

No.

No.

I don't want to hear this…I can't listen to this. Light Yagami…Light Yagami is _Kira_? They're wrong…this is just…some plan, some grand scheme of his, it has to be. Because if Light Yagami is Kira then I've wasted almost five years of my life helping the worst criminal mankind has ever known.

No, I don't believe it.

Shut up, Light, shut up!

What are you saying, Light? Do you hear yourself? You're insane…absolutely insane…you're not making any sense. You're a genius and you're just…not making any sense! What's WRONG with you, Light?! No, Don't say that! Stop it, please…Light…it's not…it's not fair.

Oh God Soichiro, don't listen to him, please, wherever you are.

Soichiro.

Light, he died for this…for you. And you…You're…

"He's got a note hidden on him!"

No.

No more lies.

Soichiro, I'm about to shoot you're son. I'm sorry.

I can't keep the tears back as the trigger moves…god it hurts. Five years of my life…hundreds of lives that I could have prevented, hundreds…thousands…oh, Light, what have you done?

"M-Matsuda? You Idiot! Who do you think you're shooting, Matsuda?! Damn you!"

Shut up…stop it…

"If you're going to shoot someone shoot the others! What do you think you're doing?!"

I'm…saving the world…

"Matsuda! I thought you were the only one who understood me!"

The tears in my eyes fall…God damn you, Light, I _thought_ I understood you too! I think I'm gonna be sick…

"Shoot! Shoot the SPK members! Shoot Aizawa and the others!"

Who the fuck do you think I am, Light…Misa?

"Wh-what was it all for? The chie- No, the deputy director…Deputy Director Yagami…he was your father…" God I can barely stand.

"What did your father die for…?"

Tell me that Light…Oh God, Soichiro, please forgive me. Don't look at him, just don't…he's not your son anymore. Fucking hell, Light I Trusted you…I _trusted_ you! You not only stole five years of my life, you _used _me…used me like a tool, another pawn in your sadistic little game.

"He's using his blood?!"

No…Hell no.

I'm so Sorry Soichiro…

I'm going to shoot your son again.

Maybe twice for good measure.

No…I might need to kill him. Yes, I have to. I'll kill Kira here and now…before he can hurt anyone else, before he can ruin any more lives.

The team stopped me…you would be proud of them, Soichiro.

It's pathetic to look at you, Light. Five years…I followed you like the world savior you secretly dreamed of being. I looked up to you. The entire time, the entire time, since the day I met you…I thought you were innocent. I fought for you every day, six days a week seven to fucking seven. I really thought you would be the one to catch Kira…I thought you'd be the one to put things right again. How long you've lied to me. I listened, took in the wisdom and decisions like tonic.

Please…just die. I can't stand to hear that voice anymore.


	9. Burned

"Matt…turn it off."

"Huh? You just got here, man!"

"Matt… Turn. It. Off."

"Mello! What the hell are you…Oh, Fuck. Mello?"

"Shut up."

"But Mello."

"SHUT UP!"

"Mello, I can't fix this…you need a hospital."

"Stop it…don't touch, FUCKING CHRIST THAT HURTS!"

"I'm sorry! Sorry! Jesus."

"I don't need a hospital."

"Mello, you're going to…"

"We can't AFFORD a hospital, Matt."

"But Mello…Mello please…."

"Matt…just drop it. Help me pull my hair back…I need to get cleaned up."

"You need helluva lot more than that."

"Matt…don't start this."

"Mello."

"What?"

"I hate you sometimes."

"I know Matt."

"I'm pretty fucking pissed at you right now….you and your god damned Mafia…"

"Matt, are you going to help me?"

"What the fuck do you think?! Get in the bathroom, Dipshit."

"Matt…"

"Fuck…_What_ Mello?!"

"Thanks…"

"Just get your skinny ass in here before I change my mind."


	10. Christ

I do not believe in you.

Yet your doors are always open. I have never been a religious man, nor an overly faithful child. Life itself mocks those who cling to faith as shield and sword. Life itself seeks a reason to believe.

I suppose that I find solace here. In reality, the sight of these people, wandering in and out of your doors, offering homage to an entity that cannot possibly exist…it should be disturbing. More disturbing, perhaps, than the murderers and filth that I strive to capture… because at least those are real, solid. I can see and touch them and know that they are wrong, and should be dealt with.

You, I cannot understand.

Man paints a glorious tale…they sing hymns in your name, devote their lives to your ideals, follow you blindly. I wonder if you were just a man once…what kind of man could you have been?

I suppose it doesn't really matter.

I suppose I'm here because I have no where to go. I am incapable of the faith that the few scattered souls around me carry. I am sorry, but I cannot bring myself to believe you any more than an ideal. You are an idea, a comfort in a world that offers none of its own. You offer protection, affection, and trust to those who cannot find it for themselves. I suppose that is why I, even as an atheist, tolerate you. You act as a parent to people who cannot trust themselves. You are the ideal, the goal that they strive for.

You give them purpose.

And even I can understand the need for that. I cannot begrudge you your power, because in all honesty, what are you really going to do with it? Nothing. The entire fabrication of your existence serves a single purpose. To guide…to offer hope in a world that shuns its people, in a world that cannot, will not, love them. It was once said that religion is merely a tool to keep the poor from murdering the rich.

I do not entirely believe that to be true.

Yet, as I sit here, in the back pew in this great hall in your honor…I cannot help but think. I wonder how long these people can delude themselves into believing that you will truly save or damn their souls. I wonder how many will falter in their faith, stray from the golden path we have created and given you credit for. Morbid, perhaps, but then…I am an atheist seeking solace in a cathedral.

In truth, I suppose I envy them. I envy that quiet strength that they leave here with. They come with shadows in their eyes, with heavy hearts and great burdens. They come and they sit, and we share the silence, they and I. One by one, they drift in, and are gone again. One by one, I watch people restore their resolve, steel themselves against that harsh, cold world that we're all running from.

I find solace in your church merely because that is its true purpose. To give solace to those who need it. A place to replenish faith, to heal one's soul, and remember whom one is. I find it strangely beautiful.

I find solace in your church because it reminds me why I'm fighting my war. They come here to escape the world, and I suppose I come here to remind myself of it. I cannot believe in you, and yet I know that you cannot turn me away. Your very creed states it thus…

And while I cannot love you, I do respect you. That is more than I can say for most of the people I've met. A far sight more, in truth.

If I believed in you, I supposed I'd be able to ask for your guidance. That is impossible, I'm afraid. What guidance, what comfort, can an Idol, and ideal, offer to one such as me? While I have devoted my life to one such ideal, I cannot place my faith there. To have faith in the world is to ask for the world to use you. To believe that one needs a surrealistic force guiding them through their days, that someone is always there to judge, to watch…is weakness. To depend on anything so entirely that you live in fear of it all your life…Faith, in and of itself, is weakness.

I do not begrudge you your work…I just cannot bring myself to accept you.

If I told any of these people my beliefs, they would be angered by them. They would ask me to leave, accuse me of a great insult to your name, to your image.

But I think we understand each other, you and I.

So I'm not afraid to come here, to sit in this corner, and witness faith work its magic. I'm not afraid to come here and co-exist with those who are lost and seeking help. It reminds me that I'm human. It reminds me that Faith, though a weakness, is still powerful.

I've always respected power.

And wryly, I bring my thoughts to a close thus…as the brothers in faith come chanting down the aisle, swinging the tin of incense. I have no time left to sit and muse with you any longer. The world calls to me…and I must answer. I must answer because I, L Lawliet…I am real. And while you are beautiful, strong, and unique…you are merely an idea.

Thank you for sharing the time with me.

Amen.


	11. Pray with Me

"Matt, I swear to God, if you don't take me seriously I will shoot you myself."

I quieted. I had to…Mello never spoke to me like that unless he meant it. Things were…changing. That moment, the moment that I became something more…I felt it, and it was coming up fast. I couldn't help myself, my heart was pounding, and even my cigarette trembled in my lips. Mello was worse off than I was, pacing the garage with his helmet bag in hand. His rosary chimed quietly against the zipper of his vest.

I don't know where he bought those clothes, but I'd never have the nerve to wear them myself. One of those things that only Mello could pull off, ya know?

"Matt…you realize we may die doing this, right?"

"Yeah."

"Okay…" He resumed his path…and I think if I'd let him, he'd have walked there until the concrete wore away beneath his heels. Finally, he paused, next to his motorcycle and clutched his crucifix so hard, I could hear his leather gloves squeal. This was the part where he'd say a prayer, shake my hand, and we'd be off. Another of those secret rituals he went through. Mello was so religious, it was frightening. Catholic, and serious about it. People these days wore crucifixes like fashion statements, but Mello…no not Mello. Mello was dead serious in his faith, and if you called him on it, he could quote scripture at you in Latin and shoot you between the eyes without missing a beat.

That was Mello in a nutshell.

I lit another cigarette, placing it between my lips as the other hit the ground. I looked up again to find Mello staring hard at me. It was mildly disconcerting, because Mello hardly ever made eye contact with people. But here, he was staring at me. Meant it too.

"What's up?"

"C'mere." I hopped off the car hood and walked over. Was he mad? He kept looking me over, and it was…scary almost. Mello never looked so serious.

"Hey Mello…don't worry about it, it's gonna be…" He cut me off with a hand, and I shut up. I just didn't like the look on his face. He worried too much, it was going to be fine. How can a firefly lead you astray?

"Matt…pray with me?" The cigarette fell to the ground as my mouth fell open.

"What?"

"I want you to pray with me." Well…shit. That was personal. That was really personal. That was something I got pistol-whipped over if I dared interrupt him while he was at it…and he wanted me to pray with him? As in…stand here and listen? Or participate?

"Will you?"

"Um…Yeah, sure. If you want…" He nodded once to himself and set his helmet on the motorcycle seat. One glove came off, and then he held the crucifix up between us. A moment past and I realized that he wanted me to hold it too. Participate, then...

Wow. I mean Wow.

Mello didn't do this. Ever.

I wrapped my fingers around it, and he put his bared hand over mine. Our fingers touched where my fingerless-gloves left off.

"Repeat after me."

"I…yeah, okay." He put his free hand on my shoulder and bowed his head. When he spoke, it was different…reverent, respectful. Not Mello.

"Suscipe domine universam meam libertatem…" I swallowed thickly and repeated, fumbling through the latin.

"Suscipe domine universam meam libertatem."

_My Lord Christ, accept my freedom._

"Accipe memoriam, intellectum atque voluntatem omnem."

_My memory, my understanding, and my will are yours._

I suddenly realized I knew this prayer. When he spoke again, I picked it up. I could almost hear him smile, he slowed down to accommodate my rusty latin. I hadn't said these words since I was a child.

"Quidquid habeo vel possideo mihi largitus es - id tibi totum restituo, ac tuae prorsus voluntati trado gubernandum."

_All that I have to cherish, you have given me, and I surrender it all to your will for your guidance. _

"Amorem tui solum cum gratia tua mihi dones, et dives sum satis, nec aliud quidquam ultra posco."

_Thy grace and love are wealth enough for me. Give me these, Lord Christ, and I shall ask for nothing more._

"Amen." I lifted my head and he was smiling at me. Really smiling. I could count the number of time Mello had smiled on one hand. He tilted my head down and kissed me on the forehead. A second passed before I remembered that I was supposed to do it too. I blushed a bit, but then I managed to return the token. I missed a little and caught the corner of his eyebrow. He just shook his head, chuckling at me.

Not Mello…not Mello at all. Then he smirked and punched me in the arm.

"See you in hell, Matt." And _that_ was my Mello. That was my firefly, my best friend, and tonight, we were gonna change the world. I grinned and pulled my keys out of my pocket, heading back toward the car. Mello hit the button for the door, and the cold night air crept in through the crack as it rose.

Crisp, clean and perfect. My kind of night.

I opened the door, and Mello's voice stopped me.

"Yo Matt…"

"Yeah man?"

"…Be careful, you piece of shit Hacker." I grinned as he strapped his helmet on and swung a leg over his bike.

"Yeah…love you too, man." I don't think he heard me over the engine.

I hoped he knew anyway.


	12. Blind

I've given him my world…but I want to give him _Me_.

I'm not quite sure what I'm doing anymore. I love this man…I love him with all my heart, and I don't know why. Perhaps he offers affections that I don't recognize, attention that I didn't realize I was craving. But he barely looks at me…

Him…when the whole world is staring…when I can't get away from the eyes, the entire _world_…He doesn't see me.

I've made a living playing on men's desires. My entire career is centered on the fact that I am attractive, and talented. I can make men cry, then smirk, and make them crazy with lust. It is not something I'm proud of, but it's necessary. I've seduced the entirety of my continent, and even…even a God of Death.

Maybe his ignorance is what attracts me. I want him to love me, not what I look like. I've found that my charms have no effect on that amazing mind…nothing. I can't even make him smile.

Why does that excite me so?

He makes me feel worthless, treats me like the idiot I pretend to be.

But we know better, he and I. I am far from his equal, but I am not someone to be cast aside.

I don't care if he doesn't want my body, as long as he wants me. At least that's what I tell myself. Before him, my body was all that mattered, even in acting. The emotional input only matters so much, and to be honest…I don't think I'm that great.

But I'm beautiful…that matters.

As I sit here, among these men, working so hard to track down the murderer in their midst, I have to wonder why I'm here. I know that I'm of use to him, and I know that I am serving him well. That's enough for now I suppose, but when he will begin to realize that we're more than partners…I'm _supposed_ to be with him. This is how it's _supposed_ to be…Me and Light…Light and Misa…

I keep waiting for this Kira thing to become permanent, waiting for it to pan out so I can live a normal life as Kira's queen. I really don't care that I'll never be recognized for my work as the second Kira, as long as I'm there when the utopia is complete. Let me hang on that long, that's all I'm asking.

Maybe, when this is over, when his passion dies out for this damn notebook, it'll spark for me. I can get through to him, I know it.

Gods of Death do not fall in love lightly…maybe this one just needs a little more work.

I will have him, I swear it…He's mine. We were meant to be together…take me into a church, and I'd swear it before any God you presented to me. How can it not be fate? The two of us, perfect in the world's eyes, and in each others. Light Yagami will be my husband some day, and he will love me. _ME_. If I have to die a virgin, then God damn it, Light will put that ring on my finger…just as long as he _sees_ me.

He doesn't see me, like the rest of the world.

I've given him my world…my life.

What am I doing?


	13. Fear

I want you to know that it doesn't matter. None of it, your stunts, your accusations, your tricks. We dance, and I find you to be a most interesting partner, but nothing you do will change me.

Why, if you are nothing more than another challenge, do I feel the need to relate to you. On some subconscious level, I think I seek your approval. You have experience, you know things that I do not, and I cannot bring myself to disregard your opinion. My own father dances on my strings, and you remain so very distant. You stand aside from my shadow, with your hands in your pockets, and leave me to wonder what I'm doing wrong.

You tell me, time and time again, that it will not last. You tell me, time and time again, that you know.

And you do, don't you?

I have never had a chance at hiding it from you, but at this point, it hardly matters. At this point, it is merely a matter of time, and all I have to do is keep my footing. I cannot help but wonder if you'll ever understand my work, why I do what I do.

You know me better than I know myself, and it scares the hell out of me. I have denied myself everything, any hope of a future, to try to make yours worth living, and you know nothing of it. Worse, you've taken the scrap that you do know, and turned me into a monster. You paint me as a murderer, and when the greatest mind in the world whispers, the world listens.

You are powerful, and it attracts me in a way that I'm not sure I comprehend. It is not romantic, or even sexual, but I feel the need to relate to you. I feel the need to be accepted, because we are just alike, are we not?

You can't answer that. You refuse to.

We are alike, and you yourself wonder…what would you have done in my stead? Had the note fallen at your feet instead of mine? I have trouble believing that you are as incorruptible as you portray yourself to be…your every move tells me that you are accustomed to going beyond what is necessary and into the extremes. I can't help but wonder if you'd have taken up the mantle just as I did, even with your pre-established title. The world already knows you for your works, and you warrant even my respect, if nothing else.

Could you?

It is one thing to hunt, it is another to kill. Would you prefer to stay the hound, to chase your quarry to the tree, and wait patiently below as it waits in terror for the one who will finally kill it? Or would you become the wolf, as I have, and strike without limitation? Tear the throat from your victims, grip the very heart in your palm and compress it until it lies still against your fingers?

I think you are scared of me. I think you know what it is that I do, and how addictive it is.

I think you know.

You could, couldn't you? Throw away your morals like so many scraps of paper, to let them hover in your indecision. Then the pen would meet the paper, and you would know. You would kill, just as I do, and you would enjoy it. This is true power, this is what it means to be a God.

A God.

If I could only show you. I know you would understand, but that would be my downfall. I will not sacrifice my future, your future…for the sake of a companion worthy of my time. Not for a friend…not for the world. You are not meant to have the Note, and perhaps it is better that way. Perhaps you are here merely to present the idea of failure to me, so that I may know what lies at stake. My life is nothing…but my work…my work decides the very fate of the world. Mankind will look to me in fear and love one day, and I will remember you when you are gone.

You shouldn't matter, but if I'm wasting my time considering this, then it is already too late. At the least, I will remember you. You who challenged me, you who engaged my attentions for far too long…you who made this work worth doing. You present the ideal to me, and I have taken it betwixt my fists and ripped it wide, to the very heart of your morals, and it is there that I will break you. I play upon your very will, your very soul, because I represent everything you are sworn to be rid of. Evil. Vigilante Justice.

It is a sweet poison, I must admit, to have justice woven into your soul as we do. You and I are not so different, and one day you will realize that. You know it now, though you will not accept the fact. Kira taints your mind, mocks you in ways that I cannot do in person. I am justice, in its rawest, untainted and cruel form…you tremble to witness it, for true justice doesn't know the limitations of the human world. It has become apparent to me that Justice is more than a mere ideal…Justice and Death are brother and sister. One cannot exist without the other, without exemplifying the strength, and inherent weakness, of each other.

You know this. And yet you are content to chase.

I know…I know that it would only take you one time…just once to scratch a name, any name in the world, onto the paper. It could even be my own. You wouldn't be able to control yourself, because real Justice is the sweetest drug you'll ever find L. It's the one taste you cannot forget, the one day you cannot regret, no matter the misery that may follow it.

Real Justice will kill you. I will kill you.

But I will never forget you…

How could I possibly forget?


	14. To Shine A Light

AN- I think...I really think...this is almost a prologue to Much Ado About Nothing. I'll let you decide who the speaker is. Not sure where this came from but...here it is damn it.

XXXX

In the shadow of something greater, do you have the strength to shine a light in the dark?

I see nothing in your eyes. Nothing at all, and I am forced to wonder if you are even human. There are hundreds of muscles in the human face, designed and refined specifically for the expression of emotion and internal thought processes. Yet, as I look upon your countenance, I see nothing more than a blank page…and empty expanse of canvas capable of yielding the most beautiful and intensely painted emotions I have ever seen. You take your brush, and the stark nothing becomes whatever twisted motif you wish to express yourself with, meaningless interpretations of the same words, the same lies.

I know you. I know your kind, and your creed, and your lies…your beautiful beautiful lies are meaningless to me. Nothing more than blank canvas that will eventually rot, colors that will eventually fade in the sunlight and fall to dust, to come away on my fingers when I dare to touch you. You cannot hide forever, though I find your attempts to run from me quite thrilling, and there is nothing you can do to stay so immortal. I see nothing in your eyes, and I know that it is a lie.

I know.

Which begs the question, why, if I am so very aware of the fact that you will give nothing to me in your eyes and expression, in stillness and gesticulation…why do I continue to turn my questioning eyes to yours? Nothing more than blank looks, brief meetings of the soul, but it is more, it is so, much, more.

I find myself drawn to the shadows I find where nothing exists. Even in the lack of substance, there is something to said for shadow…for darkness. One cannot exist without the other, and if you will deny me substance, then I will take nothing.

I will take nothing from you.

In return, I offer the only thing I am capable of giving you with a clean conscience. Nothing at all. I suppose it isn't a matter of what I want to give you, because in this relationship, we can only give what we are offered, the push and pull of the current raging between our shores. I cannot offer what you have not, and I cannot take what you have not first yielded. I'd take everything from you, everything you would dare to lay before me, and if, in the process, I were to break you, I would build you up again. We cannot help but mirror each other, in soul, in mind, in action, in word, in nothing. Nothing.

Because where there is nothing, there is shadow, and I will take your shadows and play them against my Light, if that is what you offer. I will offer up my own that you may compare, the darker desires and trusts and the very soul of me, that you may decide if I am of worthy of your time.

Because you are certainly worthy of mine, my artist… my stark, beautiful liar.

And when you crumble to dust, when your legacy fades away, seared into the flesh of humankind like a brand, I will catch you.

When you glance at me again, I will yield suspicion, frank honesty, cold calculation and the promise that I will break you, one day. One day, I will take everything from you, in the name of what is right, and your paintings will fade away into nothing.

What will you give me in return?

Have you the strength, in the shadow of something greater, to shine a light in the dark?


	15. Fools

Stay behind.

That's what they told me. They said that it would be better if I waited here, let them get a lead on the case, and then join them.

Like older boys telling a child to stay behind so he is blamed for their sin.

I listened. I think. For a long time, a year even, I listened. I sat here, pondering my puzzles and waiting for them to come back to get me. Then I realized that they weren't coming back.

I believe it was the day that Mello murdered someone that I decided that I wasn't going to wait anymore. I assembled my facts and puzzles, made my deductions and then I, too, left. I would not be there, should they ever return. They were not the boys I once knew.

So I must tell myself when they begin to interfere with my work. They are not the boys I once knew. They are not the boys I grew up with, competed with…they are men now, just as I am, all three of us forced into hollow molds of our future selves and expected to find someway to fill in the gaps. There are not words to describe how much it hurts to know that I hunt my comrades as much as I do L's enemies. It is not a matter of what I want, for their action cannot go unpunished.

But for now, we fly the same flag, and I am as reluctant to impede their progress as they are mine. We will run alongside each other for now, circling and wary, because in the end, when we have won, they will either disappear of their own free will, or I will make them. I cannot leave room when filling the mold. The world I serve is too unforgiving, and whatever survives the furnace of Kira's insanity will be even less so.

I think it a damn shame that rank has come to be determined by class and dignity, not the mettle of those vying for it, but in the end…they told me to stay behind. I have already surpassed them, with their gun slinging antics and expensive catastrophes. Fools.


	16. Do you know what you hold?

Everything I am or was has been reduced to stream of excuses. I cannot tell myself that I was right, even after everything I've done to prove it to the world.

You…you've made me hollow. You have an alibi, a clever analogy for my every move, and the dance is hollow when you rob it of passion. Passion that takes its shape in the mind of genius, forged in the fire of right and wrong, made into something even I cannot define.

I called it justice, and I hoped that would suffice.

You've taken even that from me. You've taken the meaning from my words, reduced the passion that drove thousands to death and turned it into the ranting of a megalomaniacal deviant. You've broken me, and everything I stood for, and left me here…still alive in my shame. I cannot help but wonder if this was the plan all along. Even now, standing here, waiting to fall, I feel the blow echo across my soul. It rings in the corners of my mind, and I cannot help but feel…betrayed. You've caught me, but do you know what it is that you hold? Panic that wears at my sanity, and stress that I have failed…but I have not yet fallen. You have yet to knock my feet from beneath me, and yet somehow, you've torn the very heart from my chest.

You tell me I'm insane, and damn me, but I almost believe you. I almost want to throw it away, let it go, and just scream, Yes, Yes God _damn_ you, I was wrong.

I was so wrong.

But I won't…because I'm not. And no matter how cloying the truth is, the scent turns my stomach, tears at me, until I don't want Justice anymore…Revenge seems to be enough.


	17. Beautiful

Sometimes, I hate myself

Sometimes, I hate myself. Or rather, I hate what I've become. Daddy used to tell me that his little girl was beautiful. Daddy used to tell me that I looked like my mother, and he loved me so much.

He loved me.

It's been quite a while since I heard someone say that like he used to.

It's early, too early for a girl my age to be out of bed. I am though, because I have to go to work. The camera will not wait…and there's always someone willing to jump into the spotlight, step into the pose that you just stepped out of. They say the only theatrical job with any job-security is the camera-man. I know their right, and to be honest, I have a lot of respect for him.

For all I know (and I do), there are a dozen beautiful women lined up with a diva complex, just waiting until I screw up. We're vultures, the lot of us. We feed on society, and we look damn good doing it.

My hair ribbon snapped. Cheap junk…If I'd spent the money to buy a decent set, that likely wouldn't have happened.

I actually don't care. I give my looks the cursory care, the high-maintenance that the model-breed requires. That doesn't I'm happy with it. That doesn't mean that I deserve the small fortune I make.

I give up. Let it go loose today…I need some coffee before we get there. Open my eyes a bit. It's too damn early to be out of bed.


	18. Gone

The corridor is longer than he ever remembers it being. Slowly, through the great hall, dark with the damp midnight and the silence of a sleeping house, he moves like a man possessed. Passes windows where, as a boy, he used to watch the sunrise coming up over the land and wonder how anything could be so grand.

He doesn't want to know anymore.

The only sound aside from his quiet footfall is the rain against the window, battered by wind…and on the carpet as it falls from his hair, perhaps, because it's quiet enough that he can hear that too. It's just so damn quiet. There are no lights, because everyone else is asleep, like he should be. The dim glow from the windows comes from the city not far away, reflecting the street lights in the storm clouds. It's not moonlight, just another bastard without a place to be, a poor imitation and a failure, when all is said and done.

It's enough light to cast shadows.

They reach for him.

No, just the battered strands of his imagination coming into play after too long at work. Too long trying to magic another option into existence…

Fuck, it's too late now anyway.

This hall is so damn long.

The stair rail comes to his hip now, not his shoulder. He's never notice how much he's grown, but with his thoughts assailed by memories and the ever growing darkness, he can't help but to muse on the difference. His hand trails slowly up the old wood, and if the sun never comes up, he doesn't think it will make much difference in this place. It's like the sun ran away forever, it's so damn quiet and dark here. So fucking quiet.

He toes his shoes off at the top of the stairs, and shivers at the draft on his damp clothing. The cuffs of his pants are icy against his bare feet now, because he'd just thrown the shoes on in a hurry after all.

This hall is no shorter than the last, and fuck, he has to wonder why the house is so…big.

No. That's not the word. It'll come to him later, he supposes.

He sheds his light cotton jacket on the way, because the fabric is wet and reeks of cigarettes now.

Pauses outside his door.

Stares at the one across from it.

He doesn't remember moving. He doesn't remember _needing_ anything this much. Nothing.

Not his cigarettes.

Not his computers.

Nothing.

But it's a hollow want…when the door swings open and there's nothing there but must and the empty feeling of a room once full of life. Nothing there but the ghosts of what used to be, and that's nothing new. Nothing at all, really. He's seen this before.

It's not what he wants.

And so again, he turns away, shivering at the cold, and leaves the door open. Lightening flashes at his back, and the thunder follows soon after. The nagging in the back of his head flares, but he shoves it away. It'll be _fine_.

It'll be okay when the sun rises.

When the sun comes back.

The hall is so _long_.

The quiet drills into his ears, hollow and desperate and _mocking_, and he doesn't want to open his mouth because the only sound he could make at this point would be something pitiable and terrifying. They're all asleep anyway…who would hear him?

Still, he walks a little faster.

And when the shadows falls from the ceiling, roiling in the corner of his eyes, _come, to, get, him…_

He runs.

Grown as he is, he runs like he did as a little boy, eyes shut tight, bare feet pounding the carpet because he _needs_. He needs to get _away_.

He needs it so badly.

Runs, runs until he can't breathe, and his air is more like a sob anyway, but that's coming too, he can feel it. The tightness in his throat, the pain, the fucking _pain_, not in his side, but in his _chest_.

Oh god, not here. Not yet.

He rounds a corner, and doesn't know whether to keep going or turn back, because he's run here so many times before.

With books, to study, walking calmly, he's run here.

With food, frowning because it's been a day or so since that last lunch, he's run here.

At night, laughing wildly with something stolen, hiding away, he's run here.

Chased, he's run here.

Alone, he's run here.

His feet carry him forward.

Forward to a door that isn't his, never _was_ his, a place that he belongs in, if for no other reason than that he's already _there._

At least part of him.

At least…it was.

This door swings open too, and the ghosts are stronger here. The scent of him is faint, but alive. The figure sleeps on in the other bed, and he has to grin, just a little bit, because that one could sleep through anything. Oh, but him…this is all it would take, and he would stir. The simple movement of opening the door, and then he'd wake, and come. They'd slip away, they'd hide. They run together, for no reason but to run.

To run.

No, not run away.

But he doesn't appear in the door this time, wearing only his baggy sleeping pants and a feral grin. He doesn't slip out into the hall, silent, so quiet, and shut the door after.

No, no he doesn't.

And it hurts.

It's coming, he can feel it, but he doesn't know what he wants.

There are goosebumps along his arms, bold and damp with the chill, but he's not weak enough to rub them yet. Not yet.

He's run here before, but now there's nothing here…nothing.

He crosses the threshold and pulls the door shut behind him. The other never stirs, and it doesn't help. It's so fucking quiet.

There, across from him, the bed. Just beneath the window, because he always…he always liked to wake up with the sun on his skin. He's seen his outline in the sheets, catlike and lithe before he woke after sleeping in on lazy mornings… he's leaned in the door and watched him come awake.

God, it's empty.

Empty.

That's the word. He knew it would come to him.

It's so fucking empty.

It's coming, and he doesn't know how to stop it, but the pain is nearly here. He can hardly breathe. He can't see straight anymore, and the pain, the pain, pain.

He stumbles, cold, wet, barefoot, and bleeding, to the empty sheets and falls on them.

His scent is here, growing stronger by the minute as the water seeps from his body, slightly warmer, and into the fabrics beneath. He buries his face in the pillow, and oh, just breathes.

And there it is.

The first sob is muffled by feather down and cotton, and he revels in it. Tears, hot and sharp and real, are pressed to his eye lids trapped against his skin, as warm as forever.

The scent is a comfort, a memory of sun on bare skin, glistening after a run across the moor. A memory of laughter, wrestling in the grass beneath that old oak tree a mile away, lost in the fields with no one but themselves and the imaginary worlds of two boys exploring. It's a memory of nursing the cuts and scrapes after his training. It's a memory of curling up on the hearth in the library in the death of winter, shoulder to shoulder and alive.

It's a memory of him.

It's his.

The second sob is a wail no pillow could suffocate, because he's gone. He's just fucking _gone_, and he's sixteen years old, sobbing like a child, but it doesn't matter, because his best friend is just, fucking, gone.

A memory.

A major piece of his life, a burning ember of comfort and support, reduced to the ash of a memory.

There's no way the other is still asleep, but it doesn't matter. Face down, buried in _his_ bed, in his memory, he remembers. He remembers gentle talks and teasing about first girls and their kisses, and then the nothings when they merely sat together. The easy silences upon reaching their tree, when they just climbed up its branches and rested in the afternoon sun, alive. When they startled the thrush and listened to her sing, just breathing, just there.

There.

Together.

And Mello's _gone_.

And Matt's never needed him more.

And while Near may be listening, Matt just lets go…to the rain on the window and the memories in the pillow, he lets go because the sun isn't coming back and neither is Mello.

He sleeps, and really…that's all he can do.

But…it's nothing.


End file.
